


The Likely Possibility of Soiling One's Trousers

by kaalee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-10
Updated: 2008-07-10
Packaged: 2018-10-26 15:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaalee/pseuds/kaalee
Summary: [Dean/Neville] Neville isn't quite sure why someone like Dean would be interested in someone like him...





	The Likely Possibility of Soiling One's Trousers

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Written as a very belated birthday present for my beloved [](http://fitzette.livejournal.com/profile)[**fitzette**](http://fitzette.livejournal.com/) [♥!!], based on her reaction to [this picture](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v319/kaalee/alfie/candlelight.jpg). Meant to be a light-hearted read. Many thanks to [](http://danijo1.livejournal.com/profile)[**danijo1**](http://danijo1.livejournal.com/) for the beta and to [](http://thenotoriousso4.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://thenotoriousso4.livejournal.com/)**thenotoriousso4** for talking me down and saying sometimes 'just sweet' is okay.

**The Likely Possibility of Soiling One's Trousers** **  
Dean/Neville, rated R, ~1700 words**

 

.::.

  
  
  
Candlelight forgives. That has to be it.  
  
Neville lies on his side, half afraid to open his eyes. This is definitely not his bed and if he opens his eyes then he's going to have to deal with... well, _things_ , and it's far too early for that.  
  
The body next to him stirs, he hears a low grunt, then feels the bed shift and rise.   
  
With eyes slitted to look closed, Neville watches a (perfectly formed) nude male body stand, stretch slowly, then walk into the loo and shut the door.  
  
Dean.   
  
Dean Thomas.  
  
Right, then.   
  
The candlelight. It has to be why.  
  
Neville glances down at himself, pulls the blanket more tightly around him, then shuts his eyes again. He hears the toilet, then rushing water. His mind flashes reminders of the night before: mouths crushed together and gasping against the falling water of Dean's shower... the slow burn as Dean pushed inside him, his eyes lidded and smoky-sexy... Dean's smile when Neville came, coating Dean's hand and stomach... his voice, low and raspy, "God, you look good like that, Nev..."  
  
The door to the loo opens, startling him, and Neville does a quick check to make sure he appears asleep. He can feel Dean's eyes on him and keeps his breathing slow and even.  
  
The floor creaks. Dean must have walked toward the bureau. Neville slits his eyes again and watches Dean (almost) enviously. He stretches again, long arms nearly reaching the ceiling while his feet are planted hip-width apart. Neville sees the dark shadow between Dean's legs and tells his mind, "ignore, ignore, ignore..." Dean scratches his stomach, then his left arse cheek. Dragging open the middle drawer, Dean sighs low and pulls out a pair of pyjama bottoms, stepping into them and letting the drawstring hang, untied. He runs his fingers through his dark curls and glances once over at the bed where Neville feigns sleep before he walks out of the bedroom.  
  
He doesn’t look in the mirror once.  
  
When Neville hears water running again (Dean must be making the coffee he claims as his artistic lifeline) he rolls onto his back and heaves his own sigh. Even through a thin line of sight, Dean is visually stunning. All boxy lines, miles of smooth skin, and long perfect fingers.  
  
Those _fingers._  
  
Neville remembers touching them, then watching them touch his own stomach, then sucking them into his mouth and hearing Dean's throaty gasp of pleasure. He remembers Dean comparing their fingernails, saying neither of them would ever win any contests for cleanliness because his were always stained with paint and Neville's were always ringed with dirt and plant matter. Neville can see Dean's hands -- his fingers -- clearly in his mind: lighter on the palms with thin fingers just made for sucking.  
  
Dean.  
  
Clothes hang on him just right; shirts tug across his chest but never look too tight. Trousers nest under his hipbones, enough to offer glimpses of his smooth belly when he gestures or stretches. Every colour looks good on him -- which shouldn't be possible, but it is. When Dean gets pissed, he doesn't get splotchy like everyone else, he just glows faintly rosy-brown and smiles a lot.   
  
It should be illegal to be so bloody gorgeous.  
  
Neville sighs, then almost grins before shaking his head.  
  
And last night. God, last night...  
  


.::.

  
  
  
Nearly midnight at Terry Boot's flat -- glowing bright with floating candles. Ron laughingly convinced Neville to go join Dean for a dance or two, saying he looked lonely over there by himself. Dean's smile lit his face, rolling his hips in time with the music and dancing slowly toward Neville. They didn't speak for several songs, but then Dean touched his face and spoke quietly. "You shouldn't shave more often. Looks good like this, it does."  
  
The shock must have shown on his face, because Dean laughed and pulled Neville closer, rolling their hips together this time.   
  
"You've gotta get used to taking compliments, mate."  
  
Neville would have responded, but he was having far too much trouble paying attention to anything with Dean's body pressed so firmly against his.  
  
Seamus called across the room, "Oi, lads! No shaggin' on the dance floor!"  
  
Neville surprised himself by saying, "So, I'll just take him home, then!"  
  
Dean smiled (again), then moved closer (again) and Neville's mind chimed in with a helpful insight about bodies and touching and the likely possibility of soiling one's trousers if Dean didn't stop that. With the courage that only comes from candle-lit darkness, Neville slid his hand around Dean's neck and pulled him in for a deep kiss. Catcalls echoed around them as Dean kissed back, pressing his tongue inside Neville's mouth and kissing. Hard.  
  
Neville went with it -- throwing caution (or any semblance of reality) to the wind and snogging Dean for all he was worth. If nothing else, Neville would have wank fodder for the next forty-six years and a bloody great story to share over a pint. And, well... Neville actually _knew_ how to kiss.  
  
He watched Dean's eyes widen when he sucked on his tongue, then felt Dean's fingers tighten on his lower back.  
  
Neville flinched only once when Dean touched his skin (clothing can hide only so much), then let the flickering candlelight soothe his fears.  
  
It wasn't long before they left the party.  
  


.::.

  
  
  
Neville sighs and rolls back onto his side. He can smell the coffee now; he's going to have to get up eventually. Plus, it smells really good.  
  
Glancing around, Neville spots his trousers on the floor by the loo and his shirt hanging off the curtain rod. He pulls back the sheets and scuttles quickly across clothing strewn across the room to pull on his shirt. He has no idea where his boxers have got to, so he abandons them in favor of his trousers.  
  
He walks out of Dean's bedroom, then pauses at the threshold of the kitchen. Dean is standing by the sink, putting dishes into a pail of water with one hand while the other puts down a steaming cup of coffee. He scratches absently at his lower back and Neville can see a bite mark there, just above the swell of his arse. Neville flushes, then takes a long slow breath and walks in.  
  
"Morning," he says quietly.  
  
Dean starts, then turns and grins. "Morning. Got coffee on. Let me pour you a-" something appears to occur to him, "-or maybe you want tea?" It's a joke amongst their friends that Dean isn't a proper English gentleman because he drinks coffee like water and doesn't take tea.  
  
"No, I, uh... coffee's excellent. It's great. Brilliant!" Brilliant? Neville scolds himself, wrapping one arm across the front of his body. It's just a bloody coffee, not a blow job.  
  
Neville accepts the coffee from Dean and wraps his hands around the mug. Years of work with varying temperatures have made his hands resistant to anything that might be too hot or too cold to someone else. He sips absently, searching for something to say. Glancing down, Neville notices that he's standing directly in the sunbeam. Startled, he sucks in his stomach and steps backward.  
  
Dean steps forward, his eyes still fastened on Neville's.  
  
"How's the coffee?"  
  
"It's great. Yeah, thanks. It's really good."  
  
Dean steps forward another step; his eyes look smoky again and Neville feels a glint of panic.  
  
Neville steps back again and bumps the table, nearly spilling coffee all over his hand.  
  
The mug Dean has given him is chipped on the handle and has a bit of red down near the base. Neville looks around the cramped kitchen and takes in the tattered paper on the walls, the out-of-date calendar, the random dishes. It's oddly endearing that Dean seems so perfect yet has so many minor little mismatches. He looks back at Dean's expectant face and swallows.  
  
"Neville. What's... what's going on?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"It's not nothing. Last night was... well, you remember. But now... I dunno. Nev, you don't have to stay. I just thought-"  
  
"I thought... well, maybe you were only with me because- because we were pissed."  
  
Dean snorts. "Don't be daft."  
  
Neville doesn't say anything, just takes another sip of coffee and wonders if Dean would notice if he snuck out. But Dean is still looking directly at him, his face unreadable.  
  
"Neville. You _really_ think that."  
  
"Well... yeah."  
  
Dean cocks his head, his eyebrows knotted in confusion, then takes in Neville's posture, pauses for a moment, then his eyes light with knowing.  
  
"You really think that you're somehow unworthy? That there's some sort of ranking system and you got put on the inferior shelf back when you were eleven and nervous and you're too scared to come off?"  
  
Dean scrubs at his lower lip, then bites it before speaking again.  
  
"God, Nev, have you _seen_ me? Have you seen what a mess I make of things, so much so that I can't even keep some great bloke interested in sticking around after a great night with me?"  
  
His face softens. Dean motions around the mismatched, cluttered kitchen, then opens his arms in a gesture of defeat. He leans back against the counter and shrugs.  
  
" _I_ thought it was a great night."  
  
"But the candlelight..." Neville protests. It sounds feeble, though, even to him.  
  
A long pause spreads between them, widening and hushing sounds, but then slowly draws back into itself. Neville can feel Dean's words and they almost, almost make sense. He looks at Dean again and this time, he smiles.  
  
"It _was_ a great night."  
  
Dean looks at him hungrily, and Neville finds himself rather focused on the way Dean's collarbone shines in the morning sun.  
  
"Come here," Dean speaks quietly, but there's a definite shiver of longing in his voice.   
  
Neville steps through the sunbeam, pulls off his shirt and kisses Dean full on the mouth. Dean presses against Neville's chest, warm and welcoming, and kisses back like he truly means it. They pull back once and Dean's smile shines against his face, better than the brightest star.   
  
Neville sucks on Dean's lower lip while Dean slides his hands around. His fingers explore Neville's lower back and Neville's already proved that he quite likes those fingers. He thinks maybe he'll let this play out and see where it goes.  
  
Maybe it's not the candlelight that does the forgiving after all.  
  


.::.

  
  
  
~thank you so much for reading! ♥


End file.
